Webb Turner plays by his own rules, but a tip about a ruthless trafficker just walked him straight into a deadly trap.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon sign for Las Palomas flickered, casting a bruised purple glow over Webb Turner’s scuffed leather jacket. He paused at the door, adjusting the collar. He didn’t care about warrants, and he didn’t care about backup. Webb was a throwback—a Mike Hammer soul born into a world that had gone soft. But Webb hadn’t.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sizzling lard, roasted chiles, and cumin. Webb’s eyes swept the room, instantly locking onto a corner booth. There he was: Jose Martin. The man responsible for a trail of broken lives, drug runs, and human trafficking that stretched across the border. Martin was casually cutting into a plate of cheese enchiladas, a smug, relaxed smile on his face.
Webb closed the distance, his boots thudding heavy against the linoleum. He didn’t draw his piece; he wanted to feel the impact. He wanted to break this monster into tiny pieces and leave the scraps for the alley rats.
As Webb shadowed the table, Martin didn’t flinch. He merely slid a forkful of enchilada into his mouth, chewed deliberately, and swallowed.
“You’re late, Turner,” Martin murmured, not looking up.
Webb froze. His hand stayed gripped inside his jacket pocket.
Suddenly, the kitchen doors swung open. Two men stepped out, their hands buried inside heavy coats, eyes locked entirely on Webb. At the same time, Webb felt the distinct, icy press of a gun barrel slide firmly into the small of his back from the booth behind him.
Martin finally looked up, his smile widening as he gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Sit down. Have an enchilada. We need to talk about your partner.”
How does Webb get out of this corner—or does he? Write the next sentence and finish Webb’s story!
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